Woman, P. I.

By Emmanuelle

In-between writing this and writing that is a lot of time spent in . . . more writing. Sleep is a luxury, food is fruit popped into the mouth to stave off hypoglaecemia, drink is canned preferably diet, jogging is juggling the mind for ideas, rest is such a final word, love is Louie the beloved! whose trusting computer monitor for a face waits for me expectantly each time I venture into his den.

Ah. Escape is driving an ancient jeep without brakes, traipsing around with cousins in a nearly deserted island on a hot summer day.

And sometime in this very uneventful life, just for the heck of it, I dabble in P.I. work. Not Philippine Islands, you dimwit. Private Investigations. Or Phhhsssecret Inquiries. Or Possible Impossibilities. Or Probable Improbalities.

Actually, a happily married couple, Ana and Al, dear friends of mine, helpfully initiated me into this line of work. Or I thought they were dear friends of mine, until they helpfully initiated me into this line of work. It was not work. It was stomach trouble right from the very start. Let me tell you the story:

Ana and Al have a couple of friends, Beth and Bo whom I haven’t met yet, with a marital problem (who doesn’t have one?). The usual issue: wife suspects husband of infidelity. Wife has no proof, just this feeling. It is impossible for her to take the time to really be sure; she is too busy with the family grocery business. And husband works as bank manager two provinces away. Sometimes, he is even assigned farther.

Ana knows I am saving money to have the color of my sports car changed. It is dark red. Nice color, not fiery, not neon bright. Just warm, very dark red, But red, nevertheless. For a journalist, it’s like advertising: Here I am, are you color blind, shoot me!

“It’s not very different from stalking your interviewee! And you’ll be compensated on this one – a thousand bucks a day, gasoline and food refunded! You can even do this during your spare times!” Wonder of all wonders. Ana has bargained for a good deal like a good talent agent. And she’s the wife of Al, very big man in one of the two biggest food manufacturing companies.

“And I know you don’t back out from a challenge.” Ana says the clincher, with a very knowing smile. Al smiles sheepishly in the background.

As I said, I thought they were dear friends of mine.

I choose a Wednesday to do the initial reconnoitering.  On   Monday, Bo would be on hangover mode from the weekend with wife. Mode may extend to Tuesday. Thursday, he gathers energy for Friday. Friday, he drives to home. So, Wednesday it is.

Long brown hair in a bun inside football cap, long-sleeved peasant blouse to hide fair skin, loose comfy maong pants, big sunglasses, Canon camera with zoom lens, a jug of iced water, a paper bag of cereal cookies, another paper bag of fruits – at early dawn, I drive to that city two provinces away.

The bank where Bo works is easy to find. It is   just right across a children’s park. A thin car pillow slipped inside the blouse – there, a pregnant mother waiting for her kids to tire from play. Big acacia trees around – there, a pregnant mother waiting for her kids to tire from play, bird-watching for the meantime. In-between, I memorize Bo’s face from a body shot provided by Beth.

Alas, Bo doesn’t come out of the bank the whole day. Too busy, perhaps? Even after three in the afternoon, bank closing time? At five, cookies are all gone, pizza is carbo growling in my tummy, iced water is so much pee down the park restroom. At six, the children are gone. I prepare to drive to home. A day wasted.

I get out of the car to stretch my legs. From the day’s habit of looking at the bank, I look at the bank. Bo is driving out of the underground garage – but fast! I dived into my car. I have to get out of the park. At the exit, the car faces the wrong way!

My eyes do not leave Bo’s dark blue car. It goes through a number of red traffic lights. I catch up. It goes up a small hill, and the big white church at its top. I search for his car’s plate number. There, just right at the church’s doorway. Bo comes out – escorting chivalrously a woman slightly younger than him. Suddenly, he looks up, and across the top of his car. He whispers something to the woman. They step lively into his car. He drives out the churchyard, then faster than before, out of the city.

I follow his car’s bright backlights, its sudden brake lights. It enters a big subdivision. The security thought I was with Bo, they let me through. Bo shuts off his car lights. He is good.

I lost him then. I haven’t the chance to take a picture. I haven’t the heart. The woman looked pregnant. Really pregnant.

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